


some things can't be told

by reyesrobbies



Category: The Haunting of Hill House (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Gen, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-12-30 00:13:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18304343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reyesrobbies/pseuds/reyesrobbies
Summary: Steven Crain wakes up. (or, Steve finds himself at the beginning of the summer of 92)





	1. Chapter 1

Steve rolls over in his sleep, unconsciously reaching his hand across the bed, to where he knows Leigh will be, to wrap his arm around her. His hand slips over nothing, and Steve is suddenly awake. Slowly, he sits up, eyes furrowed in confusion and still blurred from sleep. He rubs his eyes, frowning as the feeling of _not right_ increases. He says Leigh’s name softly, dragging his hand down his face in an attempt to wake himself up and closes his eyes. His head feels fuzzy, there’s a darkness spreading across his vision and a nagging feeling in his stomach that he just wants to ignore, wants to flop back down into his bed and go back to sleep. But the buzz in his head increases, a piercing thread of pain that won’t go away, and he forces himself to open his eyes. He lets out a breath, holds his hand in front of his face, and focuses.

And that’s when it all goes to shit.

The hand in front of his face sharpens the more he looks at it, his _tiny child-like hand._ He turns it over and over in front of him, eyes widening the more he looks. _What the fuck_ , goes unspoken, as he brings out his other equally small hand. His breathing tightens, as Steve clenches and unclenches his fingers, hoping that they’ll miraculously grow or shrink or do _something_ other than remain the same. He looks away from his hands, he’ll deal with that later, he just needs to find something to focus on, find Leigh, find out what the fuck kind of sleep paralysis he’s suddenly induced upon himself and just breathe. He remembers drunken nights in Nell and Arthur’s apartment during the better days, sitting on the couch with a beer in hand, listening to Arthur rambling about sleep paralysis and research and articles and to just _breathe_ and _relax_ and _breathe_ while Nell sits next to him, legs wrapped around Arthur with a content smile on her face and _breathe_ and _relax_ and _brea-_

It’s not working. Steve prides himself on being rational, being the sensible one. The sky is blue, the grass is green and he didn’t see the ghost of his sister two years ago and houses don’t eat people and.

The House.

It comes in an instant, the knowledge. The acceptance. The fear. He’s in the House. He’s a child. And he’s in the House. He’s in his bedroom, the one from his childhood, peeling wallpaper, wooden bed frame that creeks if he moves too far to the left, scratchy pillows and duvet that just can’t shake the smell of rotten paper no matter how much his mom washes them. There’s flaking plaster on the bedroom floor, he remembers helping dad with renovation projects, staying up past his bedtime ‘ _just five more minutes’_ to help peel crumbling walls before his mom ushers him to bed, playfully scolding him for leaving white chalky footprints on the floor of his room. Steve looks around his room, silent and stiff, taking in little details from his childhood. His toys, his books - left open and bent backwards at the pages, from when Nell had found him so engrossed in his reading, then dragged him away for an afternoon tea party. He sees drawers stuffed with paper and pens, notes scribbled in the corners, and birthday cards peeking out from the sides, little games of hangman with each siblings shaky handwriting just barely visible. He sees moments trapped in time, things he’d thought forgotten and lost in his memories. He hears the dogs, loud and booming, barking outside the window. Steve closes his eyes.

And he screams.

It’s a scream that comes from deep within him, animalistic and raw. A scream that claws at his stomach and scrapes at his throat. It’s made from hate and anger and fear and loss. His mother smashing the vanity, leaving the house, his mother stumbling behind them, watching his family fall apart, listening to everyone calling his father crazy, watching Luke lie and steal and lie and fight and succumb to the drugs, Shirley screaming in his face, Theo’s eyes cutting into him, Nell dancing in the red room, Nell in his apartment, eyes of stone and a scream that cuts like a knife, sitting next to Leigh knowing that he’s the selfish one, he’s the problem, Luke choking on his own spit, slamming his fists into the red room’s door, his father’s body on the floor, the ghost of a dead little girl who’d just wanted a _fucking sleepover_ , memories, daydreams, secrets, guilt, grief anger, guilt.

He’s been screaming so long and so loud he hardly notices the door to his room slamming open, and when he does, it doesn’t stop the screaming. He sees his father, so young and eyes so bright and full of life, running to his bedside, feels his hands curl around his arms, shaking him slightly while his mouth moves silently and the words bubble around him, as if he’s underwater. Steve sees his mother, hovering at the door frame, her arms wrapped around herself, folding into her shawl. Behind his mother, he sees what he’s always tried to ignore. Ghosts. The ghosts of Hill House. They’re stood in a line, silent and sentry, statues in the moonlight. A tall man floating and staring, a older woman, a man with a ticking clock, he hears a baby wailing somewhere in the distance, a young girl dressed in blue with a sad smile on her face. Others that he doesn’t recognise, a woman with a hand gently placed on his mother’s shoulder. Beyond this, Steve sees the Bent-Neck Lady, _Nellie_ , flickering in and out of the shadows like a candle, her face unreadable. He looks to his mother, and their eyes meet. He sees her eyes look through him, piercing and sharp, and in the darkness he watches them widen. He looks into his mother’s eyes, and the House stares back.

 

* * *

 

When Steve next opens his eyes, he’s in his parents bedroom, wrapped up in blood-red blankets and bathed by the glow and warmth of a crisp fire, lit in a fireplace he doesn’t remember. His mother is seated next to him, humming a simple lullaby while she tugs and pokes at a small piece of embroidery. Steve stares, his mother smiles. She stands and places the embroidery on a side table. He watches her, uneasy and wary, despite the picturesque scene. His mother clasps her hands in front of herself and opens her mouth. The words come again in a bubble, and he’s just awake enough to notice how her mouth doesn’t follow the words, barely moving at all. _Drink,_ the words pop in his ear, muffled and distorted, _you’ll feel better._ His mother leaves, and his gaze is drawn to the teacup he hadn’t noticed at the side of his bed, perched on a table, tiny puffs of steam curling out of the rim.

Steve stays still, listening to the crackle of the fire and the faint humm of the House around him. He’s still a child, still in the House. He knows where he is, and he knows what the tea is. An offering from the House. He smiles sadly. Wouldn’t it be easier this way? To stay a child? Stay small and unknowing, free from the pain of the future? His hand reaches for the cup, but he falters. For a moment, he feels the room grow cold, feels the faint hum become a loud boom and watches the flames in the fire spit and flicker, their warm glow burning red and looming over him. Just for a moment, then the room is back, and Steve is more confused than ever.

He’s written a lot of books, heard tales from many people. He’s heard of the butterfly effect, of a single moment changing the course of history. Isn’t it better? To drink and forget and let everything stay the same? He reaches his hand out again, but clenches his fist once more. But would it? A single moment. He’ll never be able to recreate the moment he met Leigh, the fumbled awkward meeting where he’d choked on words and she’d laughed and it wasn’t perfect but it was _oh so them_ . He thinks of Shirley and Kevin, how they’re not perfect either but they’re better than him. His niece and nephew, tiny and beautiful in his arms, two different chances made at two different moments that can never be recreated. He thinks of his own wife, lying next to him, his arms wrapped around the small bump on her stomach that holds the tiny person he just can’t fathom. He thinks of a future where his hand holds onto tinier ones, loud smiles and the sound of tiny feet pattering on wooden floors, of birthday parties and balloons and weddings and cake. He thinks of Theo and Trish, their wedding that he can’t quite remember because _of course_ Theo had wanted it to be on a yacht filled with booze, booze and more booze and the memory is distant and fuzzy but he remembers being _happy_ and knows that Theo was happy. He thinks of Luke, cold and high on a park bench, thinks of him blowing out the candles - _two years sober._  He thinks of his mother, blood in her hair and eyes like steel. He thinks of his father alone and distant, full of pain and secrets, lay dead on the floor. He thinks of Nellie, dancing in the red room, dancing at her wedding, dancing in the wind on the beach as they sing stupid songs that don’t mean anything. He thinks of Nellie in his apartment, made of stone, thinks of her freezing and still in a casket, buttons for eyes.

He thinks of all these things. The past, the present, the future. He thinks. Then Steven Crain makes a choice. His arm moves before his mind can catch up with it. The teacup on the side, _a cup of stars_ , falls to the floor, its contents spilling onto the dark floor, steam circling around the broken pieces. His heart thuds, the room burns red and angry.

And Steven Crain wakes up.

 

* * *

 

He opens his eyes and is greeted by his father’s relieved face, finds himself drawn deeply into a hug, smashed into his father’s chest as he mutters ‘ _thank god thank god thank god_ ’ over and over again. He turns his head slightly, his mothers eyes are soft and worried and hers again, she pulls herself away from the invisible hands of the Hill House Ghosts and wraps herself into the embrace, hand sweeping through his hair as she kisses his forehead again and again.

In the weeks to come, Steve will find from the whispers of his siblings, that he’d had a seizure. His body stiff and tight in his father’s embrace, eyes rolled back and back arching, his breath catching in his throat, face blue and gagging as he spasmed in Hugh’s grasp. He wonders if the House is disappointed, that he would never be an easy meal. It is hard to tell, but he feels the house with his every step, every breath. Something has woken up inside him now, things he’s always tried to ignore bubbling to the surface, flaunting themselves in his face ‘ _look at me, i’m here. I exist’._ He sees the Hills, as he now knows them to be, in every window and spare moment. William Hill floating and combing the floors of the grounds, looking for a hat Steve will never allow Luke to find. Hazel Hill lurks in the shadows of his bedroom, quiet and calm, whispering words he can’t quite seem to catch. Eugene Hill only appears at night, wheels squeaking as he taps and bangs his way through the hallways. Poppy Hill is loud and flamboyant, basking in his attention as she runs her fingers through his hair and whispers rhymes in his ears. Edward Hill snakes his burnt hands around his legs at the breakfast table, fingers hot to the touch and groans and grunts until Steve can stand it no longer and excuses himself from table.

He knows his family is worried. His mother busies herself making him different flavoured soups and teas, to soothe his throat which still feels the effects of his screams days later, but he can’t bring himself to take a sip, his mind conjuring up the image of a little girl dressed in blue who’d held her pinky up and smiled as she took her last sip at her very first tea party. His father lingers more than necessary, asking Steve to help him with small jobs, just wanting to be near him, and Steve wakes up in the night more than once to his father curled up in a chair next to his bed, hand hovering above his heart, as if to check it’s still beating. Steve finds himself distant from Shirley, and down right ignores Theo, flinching from her gloved hands and edging away from her hugs. He shouts at Luke for small things, overreacting when he finds that the younger boy has taken a toy or book from its place in his room. He apologises later, head pounding and heart heavy with the memories of a time that no longer exists, when Luke would sneak like a shadow into his room at Aunt Janet’s and take and take and take to fuel a habit that would break their relationship and Steve's trust. He finds himself drawn to Nell, even if just to watch her play, and is the first to volunteer for teddy bear picnics and tea parties in the woods. He smiles at her innocence and tries to ignore the Bent-Neck Lady out of the corner of his eye, who seems to dim in and out, flickering in the sunlight. He sees her before he sleeps, her face empty and blank.

Steve knows the House is angry, he doesn’t seek out the Red Room, doesn’t look for his game room. Instead he waits. Thinks. He said once that a ghost was a wish, and deep down, he feels this is his secret wish. His family whole and happy, frozen just before they snapped apart at the seams. He’ll be damned it he lets the House steal his family for a second time. He'll keep Nell and mom and dad safe, even if it means taking their place.


	2. Complications

Time travel, Steven has decided, is a pain in the ass. He doesn’t know if it’s the trauma of his childhood that’s led him to forget, or his young age, but nothing is happening when it’s supposed to. He distinctly remembers Shirley finding the kittens at the start of his father’s restoration project, remembers her bringing them inside and giving them ridiculous names and promising him that she wouldn’t let them in his room (he remembers one of them getting in anyway and pissing all over his copy of _to kill a mockingbird_ but it was hard to yell at Shirley when they all dropped dead over night so he’d kept his anger to himself). He wonders, wryly, if maybe the House is messing with him more than it already is, maybe it’s got a sense of humour after all. He feels like he’s been trapped in the past for weeks, feels like he’s walked the halls for hours on end. But when he wakes it’s only been two days and he somehow feels like the House is laughing at him. Steven remembers Shirley finding the kittens first, so he clings to that, maybe if he stops her trying to find the kittens she won’t have to go through the pain of losing them.

Except Shirley doesn’t try to find the kittens. She doesn’t pick up her camera, she doesn’t go onto the large grounds of Hill House, and she doesn’t go into the woods. Steven frowns and gives it another day, maybe he was a few days off. So he waits. And nothing happens. Nell continues to have nightmares, continues to wake up screaming in the night (but when he goes into her room, it’s not the Bent-Neck Lady hovering over her, it’s Poppy Hill with a noose made of gold). His mother continues to slip further into the red room and his father remains blissfully unaware while he hammers at dusty old walls and tears down old memories. But Shirley doesn’t find the kittens. Steven is confused, and a little bit angry. If he’s wrong about this, what else could he be wrong about? How is he supposed to save his family, when he can’t even remember when the events he needs to stop occur? Maybe, he thinks, the kittens aren’t there yet. Maybe he's got the date wrong, maybe he just wasn’t remembering it right. His dad had said the kittens had only been a day old when Shirley had found them, so if he goes and looks and doesn’t see them, then everything should be back on track, right?

The next day, he ignores Nell’s offer of a tea party and puts a flashlight in his pocket. He pushes open the old gates that lead to the wooded area of the grounds and takes a deep breath. He walks until he comes to the old graveyard that lines the property. He feels like being petty and childish and sticking his middle finger up at the worn out old graves, but doesn’t, out of begrudging respect for the dead and the nagging feeling that his (real) mother would have clipped his ear for swearing. The vines on the floor bite at his heels and tug at his trousers, as if telling him not to go any further, but he pushes on, taking the flashlight from his pocket. Despite the bright sun above, the wind has turned chilly and nips at his cheeks, and the shade from the trees looms overhead, covering the forest in a thin layer of darkness. He reaches the shed, pausing, filled with dread suddenly for no reason at all. Steven shakes his head, feeling stupid. It’s just a shed, besides the kittens won’t be there yet, he’s remembering wrong and in a few days Shirley will come outside, take a million pictures she won’t ever develop and find an old hornet’s nest and scream for her dad. She’ll bring the kittens inside in a cardboard box and then spend the next few days ruining her childhood and traumatising herself when bugs crawl out the mouth of her dead pets. Steven puts his hand on the door, and pushes it open.

Then he swears.

Because the kittens are there.

Small and crawling over each other in an attempt to get warm and comfortable. They’re pitiful and cute at the same time but Steven doesn’t see that because he’s too busy kicking the door of the shed in a rage, cursing the House because the kittens don’t look fresh from the womb, they look a week old at best and they’ve been here and Shirley wasn’t. Steven breathes, he bends down and clasps his hands on his knees and breathes in and out. Then he kicks the door once more for good measure. The anger is bubbling over him in waves and he thinks, screw this, slams the door to the shed shut and walks away. He’s halfway to the graves when he stops and looks back. The nights have been getting colder and with no mother to look after them, the kittens will probably starve to death. _What’s worse,_ Steven thinks drly, _death by exposure or death by ghost_. His feet seem to move on his own and against his better judgement, he finds himself stomping back to the shed. He opens the door once more, firmly but calmer this time. Steven stares down at the kittens. The kittens don’t stare back at him. He closes the door again and shakes his head, he is not taking them home.

 

* * *

 

Steven storms into the house a few hours later with a box of bedraggled kittens and a look on his face that tells Hugh not to even ask.

 

* * *

 Steven has a newfound respect for Shirley, because being a mother is hard. His dad found him warm blankets and small milk droppers to feed the kittens with, but the tiny things won’t take the damn milk. He finds himself swearing under his breath and restrains himself from just forcing the dropper into the things mouth, he doesn’t remember Shirley having such an issue feeding the damn things. Speaking of Shirley, she hovers at his door throughout the night, wanting to come in and pet them and cuddle them and give them soppy cutesy names but Steven refuses to let her get attached. He gives them doomed names, like Macbeth; Odepieus; Eponine; Eddard Stark. When he finally gets them to suckle on the teat of the dropper a few hours later, he feels a dull sense of irony that they’ve finally decided to live, when they’ll be dead by the morning. Steven tucks them into the blankets and hovers awkwardly over the box. Should he say a prayer? Say goodnight? He’s never been too good with kids, he’d babysat for Jayden and Allie once, and spent the night awkwardly watching cartoon network and drinking Kevin’s idea of good whisky (he’d overheard Jayden complaining to Shirley in the morning, calling him boring and remembers never being asked back to babysit again). He knows it’s wrong to compare kittens to children, but hey, it’s not like he’s got that much experience with either. Steven decides against a prayer, and settles himself into bed. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about little tiny graves made of shoeboxes and tosses and turns as he tries to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Steven is woke with rustling coming from the bottom of his bed at 3am. He rises slowly, hoping it’s not Eugene Hill passing through again. For some reason, the child seems to think it’s funny to roll his wheelchair through his room at night, stare him out, then slowly reverse back through the walls. The ghost doesn’t smile, but Steven knows he’s laughing at him. The rational side of his brain wonders when exactly he started to gain camaraderie with the ghosts of the house, the half asleep childlike side of his brain wonders if he could convince Eugene to do a few wheelies just to spice his nightly visits up a bit.

It’s not Eugene who greets him when he rubs his eyes awake however, it’s a ghost he’s never seen before. Logically, Steven knows there are more ghosts that roam the halls than just his sister, Abigail, the Hills and the clockmaker. The House is old, older than the hills and he knows more than one person must have given into the temptation of the House. He doesn’t see them often, they’re quieter than the Hills who like to be seen and heard. They tend to linger in the background and scarper away when they notice him looking. The ghost in front of him is a young girl, she looks no older than twelve. She looks like something from Oliver Twist, dishevelled and thin to the bone. Her hair is limp, scalped to the top of her head, small pieces falling loose, hidden under a white cap. There’s a bruise on her cheekbone, purple and angry and her face seems to glisten under the moonlight, giving the effect of water dripping from her eyelashes. She’s a scullery maid, Steven realises slowly, probably from the 1800’s, long before the Hill’s claimed the House as their own. She’s sat near the box of kittens, looking down on them with what looks like longing on her face. Steven watches as she reaches a thin hand into the box and picks up a kitten. Eponine wriggles in her grasp, mewling slightly and the girl strokes the top of the kittens head gently, in an attempt to soothe the creature. The girl rests the kitten in both hands, and brings it to her chest, her grip tightens around the small being as she cuddles it and Steven suddenly feels uneasy. The kitten shakes against her grasp.

“Excuse me?” Steven finds himself calling out to the girl.

The ghost jumps, startled and drops the kitten in fear. Eponine mewls loudly and the girl clutches her hands in front of herself, moving to stand and run.

 “Hey,” Steven raises his hands slowly and cautiously, he hadn’t meant to scare the girl, she was more skittish than some of the other ghosts he’d met. “Don’t go, sit back down.”

The girl looks at him, unsure, and gingerly sits back down. She lowers her head.

 “Beg your pardon, sir,” she speaks, her accent is heavy, Steven can’t seem to place it, but it’s foreign....London? Or Scotland? “I didn’t mean to, I just ‘aven’t ever seen ‘em so small before. Didn’t mean t-”

Steven cuts her off, and the girl looks at him. This ghost means no harm, and he feels like laughing. Poor thing, surrounded by the nutjobs of Hill House for so many years. “It’s fine, just, you were squeezing them too tight, you could have hurt them.”

The girl gasps lightly, and lowers her head again. Steven feels an apology on the tip of her tongue and reaches out to touch her shoulder. His hand meets her, and he feels the unmistakable chill of death. The girls eyes are wide and Steven wonders if he’s going to regret his next actions.

“Want me to show you how to feed them?”

 

* * *

 

 

The two are up for hours, and Steven begins to feel a flood of affection for the little waif curled up next to him, eyes bright as she brings to dropper close to Othello’s little nose - she seems to be having more luck than him at getting the kittens to nurse, and he isn’t sure whether or not to be offended that the kittens prefer the touch of death than his own warm hands. It feels strange, feeling so parental towards a child who’s (now) around the same age as him, even if he isn’t really twelve, he still looks it. It’s peaceful in the room, and Steven feels bad for breaking the silence.

“My names Steven, sorry, not that great with introductions.”

The girl pauses, stroking the kitten in her arms gently. “It’s fine, sir.” She looks up and sees the question in Steven’s eyes, “My name’s Della.”

“Nice to meet you,” Steven smiles. “Sorry, I need to ask, how did you…?”

 Steven feels like an ass for asking, gesturing to Della and bless the girl, she seems to know exactly what he’s asking. Her smile lowers, and she focuses on the creature in front of her, not meeting his eye.

 “My mum sent me here from London, we didn’t have much money, my dad got himself locked away just after I was born and I had too many brothers and sisters. There was a lady, in the market, she said mum would be rich if she sent me with her, that there was work overseas, that people would pay good money for hard workers. Well me mum, she’d have done anything for a few shillings so of course she said yes. Don’t blame her. Wasn’t too bad to start, I had to listen to Miss Gertrude, she was in charge of the kitchen, the others girls made fun of the way I spoke but I didn’t mind the work and I was helping mum.” Della’s fists began to clench gently, “But then...Miss Gertrude, she started acting...odd.”

 “Odd?” Steven enquired, his brows furrowing.

 “She...well, we’d all heard from the girls in town, when we went to buy meat from the butcher’s boy, they say they house drives you mad. We didn’t listen to them, they were...well, they were wrong. But Miss Gertrude, she’d never been nice, but she...started getting worse. The Master and Miss didn’t care much as long as the food got to their table on time, but she made us work harder, if things weren’t done in time, she’d get mad. She struck poor Alice so hard once we had to fetch the stable boy!” Della leans forward at this, eyes scandalised “The butler told her off but I suppose she was too far gone at that point. Girls started leaving for the town, finding new places of employment but there wasn’t that much and my mum needed the money, so I stayed and...well, I was cleaning the pots and pans in the kitchen and, I guess I must have been doing a poor job because Miss Gertrude struck me but...she didn’t stop. I remember her hand on my head and then the water and then...nothing.”

 Della trails off and Steven feels a weight in the bottom of his stomach, he thinks of Nell dancing in the red room when Della tells him how she woke in a room filled with toys and cats and treats and finds himself hating the House even more than he thought possible. The House fed on the broken and the vulnerable and he wasn’t going to let it hurt them anymore. He finds himself wrapping his arms around Della, feeling her stiffen, then melt into his embrace. He finds himself telling her she can help him look after the kittens, she can see them everyday. He tells her he’ll introduce her to his sister and she can have tea parties all afternoon, she won’t have to be alone and frightened anymore.

 He parts and Della looks to the floor, a smile hidden under her long locks of hair. Steven feels eyes watching him and turns to face the door, where he sees another lonely child. Abigail lingers, still and silent. It hasn’t escaped Steven’s notice that his presence has caused a small change, no Bent-Neck Lady roams the halls and when she does she’s pale and faded, glitching in and out of the house like a broken television station, Steven thinks that might be a good thing - maybe he’s changed something and Nellie never comes back to the house, never hangs from a noose made of gold. The Bent-Neck Lady may be gone, but Abigail stills walks the walls, softly and always out of the corner of his eye. He’s never paid much mind to her, but somehow, in that moment, he knows what he has to do. He doesn’t know if his mom is too far lost in the house yet, but he’s going to save Nellie, save Luke, save Shirley and dad and Theo.

 He’s going to save Abigail too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC ghosts? Invest now!  
> Thank you for the kind words on the previous chapter, sorry it took so long for chapter 2!


End file.
